Parched
by The Illegible
Summary: In the interest of checking in, Lahabrea and Emet-Selch get Elidibus drunk.


The Emissary does not drink.

Oh, occasionally he'll have a glass of wine if left to his own devices. Pressed, he can handle mead. Ouzo. Kasiri. Sake. Gin. So on and so forth. It would hardly make sense for an Ascian to show lower tolerance than one of the sundered (although that does depend on the vessel), and Elidibus knows he can manage if pressed.

Put more plainly, he doesn't get drunk.

There was a period, following the first Calamity, when Emet-Selch went through vessels in rapid succession while attempting to drown himself. It was ugly, and frightening, and a distraction none of them could afford.

They've agreed, quietly and informally and not in so many words, to keep an eye on each other. The three of them. Clearly they aren't alright, not really, but under the circumstances there has been no choice but to become intimately aware of one another's weaknesses. A precaution to ensure control is maintained.

Lahabrea doesn't rest unless forced, and there have been occasions it took both of them to convince him. The orator can become nigh incoherent before he'll submit to inaction, but with enough botched plans even he can no longer deny the cost.

Emet-Selch hurts himself on a regular basis. Some ways are more obvious than others. While his efficiency remains uncompromised, he seems to resent their intervention. If sleeping reminds him to take care then better that he sleep.

Elidibus erases himself, or tries to. Not his memories. Not his mission. Not the tasks before him or his failures or the faces he will never see again.

Only himself.

* * *

"Lahabrea."

"Ah. I was wondering when I might see you next."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure you're just as excited by this as I am."

"…I take it that's not a gift for me."

"Don't be ridiculous. I would never spend so much gil. It's… look, don't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Noticed what, _Emet-Selch?"_

"The Emissary. He may not be so dramatic as you or I, but the toll is clear."

"I'm hardly dramatic. And… yes. I have noticed."

"…"

"Why are you bringing this to me?"

"You know very well why."

"Hades, many things I may be but a mind reader is not among them."

"I'll thank you to- oh, never mind. Look, if it comes from me alone he won't listen."

"I wonder why that would be."

"Can you, for a single moment, put aside this… this infantile bickering? You were better once."

"You weren't."

"…I wasn't."

"…"

"Alright. But under the circumstances, might I make a suggestion?"

"I'm listening."

* * *

It is simple enough for Lahabrea to inhabit a vessel with appropriate accommodations. Or rather, it is simple enough for any of them but for Lahabrea it makes sense.

Emet-Selch escorts Elidibus. Their pretense is that the Speaker has raised an important matter that would be inappropriate to broach with their sundered colleagues. Not, technically, a lie. Given that Lahabrea will reflexively approach Elidibus before the Angel of Truth at each opportunity however, this may have inspired some alarm.

The door closes behind them. Lahabrea, projecting his preferred likeness over the host, waits on a couch within.

It's admittedly a surreal sight. Ishgardian finery with its gilded edges, its elaborate wallpapers and marble floors. A collection of creams and blues and greens, fine furniture with velvet seat cushions. All ostentatious in the extreme… and then Lahabrea. Masked and cowled. Pouring three glasses of La Noscean arrack.

Elidibus freezes, and though none of them can see his eyes the confusion is clear enough.

"What is this?"

"Your turn," says Emet-Selch, lightly but less flippant than he might have been.

Lahabrea proffers a cup from where he sits.

Elidibus neither moves nor speaks.

Emet-Selch approaches. Takes the drink. Presses it carefully into the other man's hand.

"Don't think," he says smoothly," that I won't let you drop it."

Mercifully, Elidibus has a good grip.

"Sit," says Lahabrea, gesturing with his own glass to the sofa across from him.

Elidibus sits.

Emet-Selch sits.

Takes his own glass, perhaps a bit pointedly.

Elidibus' mouth is pressed tight. It opens briefly, as if to speak. Shuts again.

"Explain," the Emissary manages eventually.

Lahabrea meets his co-conspirator's eye. Downs his arrack in a single attempt.

It is a long attempt.

It lasts several moments.

The other Ascians watch.

"Elidibus," says Emet-Selch as Lahabrea endeavors to catch his breath in the aftermath, "Lahabrea and I are concerned that you may be experiencing some difficulties in recent years."

"I'm fine," replies Elidibus coldly. Holding his drink. "Why did you think this necessary?"

"Because—" wheezes Lahabrea.

"Because you're practically a mammet," says Emet-Selch, picking up Lahabrea's glass. Moving it just out of reach. "Truly. It's been what, two hundred years? Three? Neither of us can remember the last time you so much as spoke of matters unrelated to the Rejoining."

Lahabrea reaches. Elidibus pours his arrack into the other man's glass before nudging it back toward him.

Elidibus makes eye contact with Emet-Selch.

"I remain focused," he says evenly. "Nothing more."

Emet-Selch gestures to the bottle.

Elidibus sighs.

Refills his own glass.

"There are matters I must attend myself. As is the case with each of you."

"Undoubtedly," replies Lahabrea more evenly. "But with few exceptions, you haven't done so."

A hard stare from behind the mask.

"What would you have me do? I can't very well take time off."

Emet-Selch sips.

"A negligible amount of time," he says, "taken sparingly, may be forgivable."

* * *

At least once every decade or two.

If the sundered can't manage a few hours to themselves then really, what's the point in having them?

* * *

Elidibus doesn't get drunk, but he can manage the generous end of tipsy.

Lahabrea overestimated either the vessel or himself, and in consequence leans heavily on Emet-Selch's shoulder. Emet-Selch, who carefully selected a stronger drink and paced himself with ease born from practice, tolerates it.

Something about the gesture may remind him, if only a little, of lighter days.

The request is very simple and very honest, and it comes from Lahabrea.

"It's… It's been a long time. Would you play?"

The generous end. Extremely tipsy.

Not drunk at all.

Elidibus approaches the piano warily, as if it might snap at him. Looks at his gloved hand, outfitted with claws.

Claws attached to the glove. Glove attached to the hand.

Won't do.

With the special kind of grace that can only come from impatience born of the extremely tipsy, Elidibus catches one leather tip between his teeth and pulls it free.

Emet-Selch's face lights up as he waits for a repeat performance. Spiteful, Elidibus waves his exposed fingers experimentally before simply using them to remove the other glove.

He sits.

He stares.

Looks to his companions, who are not his friends but who are nonetheless all he has left.

And who, despite not being his friends, nonetheless worried for him and missed him enough to stage this ridiculous ambush.

He shuts his eyes, and after a moment begins to play.

* * *

A melancholy song, with notes that occasionally slip. Quick. Plinking. Gentle.

It is the first time in far too long that they can hear Amaurot.

* * *

Lahabrea smiles. Shuts his eyes.

Listens instead of speaking.

* * *

Emet-Selch's expression proves unreadable, but his gaze does not waver.

* * *

As all things must, eventually it ends.

In the silence that follows, they both hear Elidibus' voice humming softly, under his breath.

He brings his bare hand to his face, finds his mask.

Removes it.

Places it atop the piano and leans in.

Covering his eyes.

Emet-Selch is rising before Lahabrea can fully face him. There is a light, almost affectionate pat on his shoulder as he does this.

Like an excuse.

Lahabrea follows him to the Emmisary, and they each sit beside him on the bench.

* * *

"I'm fine," says Elidibus wearily. "Too much to drink."

He doesn't talk to them about his wife, or his son.

He doesn't tell them that this scares him too.

He doesn't relate the people, the places, the small decencies he misses with all his heart.

He doesn't have to. They know.

* * *

In the end, he thanks them anyway.


End file.
